Dead Boy's Poem
by ElvenPirate41
Summary: ...Never sigh for better world it’s already composed, played, and told.  Vignettes about the Phantom.  Songfic. Completed.
1. I

"**Dead Boy's Poem"**

Work: the Phantom of the Opera  
Genre: General  
Character(s): the Phantom  
Rating: PG  
Notes: Songfic in a series of vignettes, one or two lines at a time. Lyrics by Nightwish.

* * *

I. _born from silence, silence full of it_

The babe is born utterly silent. He is small, a premature birth. The midwife cleans the blood off his face and gasps.

Worriedly, the tired mother asks to see him. She gazes upon her son's face and recoils, weeping in sorrow and disgust. Only then does he begin to cry.


	2. II

II. _a perfect concert, my best friend_

He stands outside the opera house, looking one way, then the other, to see if anyone is present. He sees no one, and removes the makeshift mask from his head so he can better hear the music coming from within. A woman's voice soars, high and beautiful. He listens, and for once he feels free. Utterly enraptured by the sound, he remains as still as a statue, not hearing the gypsy man approaching. A hand falls heavily on his shoulder; he jumps in alarm and pulls the bag back over his head. The boy knows he will be punished for running off, but he almost fails to care. He has found something which no one can take from him.


	3. III

III. _so much to live for, so much to die for_

One late night following a miserable, foodless day, the boy wonders what he has to live for. In despair and grimness strange for one so young, he thinks, _nothing_. But then a melody floats through his mind, like a swan high above the hunger and the torment. He remembers the freedom in the soprano's voice, soaring in a language he could not understand – but that did not matter. He knew she was singing about something so beautiful that all words were superfluous.

He would die to know that sort of freedom, that sort of beauty untainted.


	4. IV

IV. _if only my heart had a home_

He looks around the chamber, stony and vaulted, the very bowels of L'Opera Populaire. The young woman left him some time ago, and he is cold and wet from stumbling through the subterranean tunnels.

He drips water onto the rocky ground, the teardrops of an old life.

His eyes are wide; the rough mask in his hand is forgotten. He cautiously calls out, but there is no response save his own voice echoing back at him from untold cavernous hideaways.

Here in the darkness shall be his new home, a place where he need not wear a mask.


	5. V

A/N: For argument's sake, let's say that Christine is about ten years old here. The Phantom does _not_ feel physical attraction for her at this point, but still recognizes her superior talent.

* * *

V. _sing what you can't say; forget what you can't play_

He often roams his opera house, unseen and unheard, to monitor the performers' progress. Generally he is disgusted by their lack of talent – yet one has had him returning again and again.

He watches the girl dance and laugh with her friends as they learn their ballet. "Sing something for us, Christine," they say, and she obliges.

Christine... her name is Christine.

She is a pretty little thing, if sometimes a bit sad in countenance, and her voice reflects all of this; it is sweet and melancholy.

Her voice lingers in his mind for the rest of the night, but he cannot write a single note. He does not sleep, but sits in from of his organ, picking out chords – nothing sounds quite right. In frustration, he at last rises and takes leave of his sanctuary, heading for the roof, where he will be undisturbed.

He climbs up to the very top of the opera house to find a light snow falling on the roof. He breathes in the crisp air with relish – while his underground lair provides safety, the view from the rooftop overlooking the Parisian night makes him feel like a free man – no, a god among men, staring down in solitude at the city below.

But no, he is not alone. There is one already up there, and she peeks out from under a hooded cloak in childlike curiosity and wonder. He knows not what to do in the face of such innocence, and so he puts his trust in what he knows best: he sings to her, telling her of her talent and her promise, and how in time he can make her a true virtuosa.

And as she sings back, the harmonies all come together in his mind. She calls him an angel, welcomes him, accepts him; his heart sings even as he does... but the stars fade and he bows to her, returning downward with a sweep of his cloak. He returns to his organ as dawn breaks over Paris, feeling as though the Muses themselves are guiding his hands.

* * *

Review Responses:

**Kytten **Thanks! Darkness is always good. ;)  
**Lookpastthemask** It's about content, not length.


	6. VI

A/N: About now, he is starting to have romantic feelings for her. Ligeia is a character from a short story by Edgar Allan Poe essentially, she was perfect in every way.

* * *

VI. _hasten to drown into beautiful eyes_

She is fifteen and as beautiful and extraordinary as Ligeia. These days, her emotions flux like the tide upon the sea. He watches her, looking into her eyes to see past her calm exterior, as much of a mask as the one he wears upon his face. Her eyes glow with happiness when she sings, when he teaches her from the shadows, when she thinks of their secret, although she does not yet know him. Yet they are filled with a profound sadness from the great loss of her life. Try as she may to hide her feelings from everyone else, nothing escapes his keen glance.

He takes comfort in her joy, and feeds on her sorrow.


	7. VII

A/N: I try not to italicize too much in this story so it doesn't get confused with the song lyrics... but I had to put the poem in italics. Andthe poem is mine... all mine, muahahaha!

* * *

VII. _walk within my poetry, this dying music_

He is a lover of verse, and no novice rhymesman himself. He knows that she too delights in the poetry which makes the music still more beautiful. With this in mind, he writes poems just for her, the words flowing with greater facility than those he could speak to her.

_Heaven is but an illusion  
__Intangible and unseen  
__Nothing so fair could ever exist  
__This the world thought ere came Christine._

_The world is a place despondent  
__Beauty stays not ever green  
__And love cannot live on eternal  
__This the poets thought ere came Christine._

_The music could not be more perfect  
More passionate, dark, or serene  
No voice could do it sweet justice  
This I thought ere came Christine._

_

* * *

_

Review Responses:

**DreaminofLorien** - Hi! I'm glad you like this.The song is positively beautiful, and the music is better. I wholly recommend buying any of Nightwish's albums. And there's never a need to stop rambling... it was some very profound rambling!


	8. VIII

VIII. _my love letter to nobody_

He lays the poem on her pillow, the ink just dried and the wax seal fresh. The skull holds foreboding to others in the opera house, but not to her. She smiles to see a message awaiting her from her invisible tutor, from her angel.

He slips back into the shadows, back behind the mirror to wait for her return. He has all the time in the world, and he will wait as long as it takes to see her smile at the words he has written just for her.

Most of his poems she never sees.


	9. IX

IX. _never sigh for better world; it's already composed, played, and told_

Many years ago, he learned to accept things the way they are. Some aspects of life are carven in stone, he knows, and those who refuse to accept them are either dreamers or fools.

Therefore, he sits alone in disgrace, in exile, but not often in despair. The music he hears in his mind is the tidings from a different world, mingled with the madness of his own. He need never see this outside world for already it dances in his head, a phantasm even unto a phantom. What seem to be mere notes on a page to some are the greatest treasures to him. They provide him with solace and release from bitter truth; the music may very well shape his future.

Oh, but how he envies the dreamers.


	10. X

X. _every thought the music I write, everything a wish for the night_

Sitting before his organ amid the light of a hundred candles, he is in a deep cycle of composition. He writes out the harmonies on their neatly drawn staves, pauses, plays a few notes, moves to continue, frowns and reconsiders, plays a few slightly different notes, nods to himself, proceeds. So this continues until at long last he plays what he has written: the accompaniment to an aria he has composed for her. He hums the vocal melody to himself, albeit a good octave lower than it is written. He is pleased with it – someday she may even sing to his playing. But for now it will be enough just to hear her sing his work.

It seems that nighttime is taunting him, drawing closer with all the speed of the stars moving across the sky. When night's curtain has fully descended and the rest of the world is deep in slumber, he will go to her.

The waiting is the hardest part.

* * *

Review Responses: 

**Brosia: **Phantom and Nightwish do correspond quite nicely, don't they? I love the cover they did of tPotO... Marco makes an awesome Phantom.

**DreaminofLorien:** Again, that's some pretty deep stuff...Keep the spiffy reviews coming, dear! ;)


	11. XI

XI. _wrote for the eclipse, wrote for the virgin_

It seems to him that her beauty only grows with the days; he believes that she could outshine the sun and the moon at once. He has wondered if these changes are real, or if they are only perceived by his eyes. Does she appear more lovely to him because of her growing talents? Or perhaps, he has dared to think, is it because she might come to love him?

This thought brings him more hope than he has known in a long time, and he is determined to protect her, to make sure that she remains his alone. No other man could ever give her what he can, and he will see to it that no man but he will ever taint her purity.


	12. XII

XII. _died for the beauty, the one in the garden_

From the shadows of Box 5, he watches her shining with the joy of the music he has given her. He knew that this moment would come to pass; Carlotta, that talentless starlet, was no musician. Christine _is_ music, _his_ music embodied within one perfect young woman.

The aria is flawless. While Andre and Firmin watch in mingled anxiousness and astonishment, he looks on in satisfaction and pride – he had known that her talents would come to full blossom if only she were given the opportunity.

Her final, triumphant note is met with a thunder of applause and appreciative cheers. She smiles, flushed and radiant as flowers are tossed onto the stage. While the managers shake hands and Christine drops another gracious curtsey, he exits the box and makes his way towards the dressing-rooms.

Her elegant chamber more closely resembles a garden than a performer's dressing- room; many surfaces are covered with flowers from admirers and well-wishers. The smell is overpowering, and he is sure that more will soon be on their way. He locks the door behind him and moves quickly. He draws a narrow black box from within his cloak and slides off the cover. Inside is a fresh red rose with a black ribbon tied around its stem. This he leaves where she is sure to see it; then he unlocks the door and slips behind the mirror, awaiting her return.

* * *

Review Responses:

**DreaminofLorien:** "It's one thing to make sure no man taints that purity. It's another to make sure no OTHER man does it." Exactly. And as for her rejecting him... there will definitely be some bitterness/jealousy starting in XIV... the line is _"failed in becoming a god," _so much darkness ought to ensue...

**Aliiak:** Thank you! Your review was very kind and encouraging, and really made my day:)


	13. XIII

XIII. _created a kingdom, reached for the wisdom_

She appears enchanted, fascinated by her masked mentor who has at last appeared to her, and by his candlelit netherworld. He sings to her, pleased by her reaction, and feeling like a loving benefactor as her observes her. Life here with him should not prove too difficult for her – how curious she is, how eager to understand the unknown!

She looks upon him in rapture and admiration, upon him, her angel. Her voice mingles with his and as one they echo off the cavern walls, just as he had imagined. She shall be the queen of his song and of his sorrow.


	14. XIV

XIV. _failed in becoming a god_

He is in a blind rage of betrayal, his vision overtaken by black and red as the snow falls upon him. How dare she desire the love of this _boy_? How _dare_ she? He paces in frustration at how ungrateful she is. Do his gifts to her mean nothing?

"Order your fine horses," he mutters through bitterly clenched teeth. He does not understand. What has this young dandy ever done for her? Is she that easily swayed by wealth and a handsome face? No, he does not understand. He cannot.

* * *

Review Responses:

**DreaminofLorien:** Thanks for another lovely review! Now, Emily my dear, why exactly is it that with all this great insight you offer you do not write PotO fanfiction? I wish you would... (wink wink hint hint)


	15. XV

A/N: I hadn't planned on repeating the chorus, but in order to make everything fit better, it has been done. At any rate, I satisfied myself in making this installment and the next different enough from the first time the chorus was used.

* * *

XV. _never sigh for better world; its already composed, played, and told_

Grandly he enters the masquerade, grimly pleased by what he sees. Masks, masks, blessed false faces at every turn. He is in control, perfectly at ease; he cannot see fear in their faces, but he can see it in their eyes.

He delivers his finished opera to the bewildered fools who manage his theatre, certain that they will not defy him. And Christine, she will play the leading lady, while he will place himself in the title role. Then he will draw her mind from this pretty young suitor – permanently.


	16. XVI

XVI. _every thought the music I write, everything a wish for the night_

He moves, catlike, across the stage, singing to her words of passion, and though they are scripted words he means every one with all his soul. It is glorious for him to hear her singing such things back to him. He cannot tell if they are meant sincerely as are his, but that is inconsequential. There are ways of knowing.

He approaches her, touches her bare shoulder, pulls her gently to his chest where she leans in rapture. Her breathing is rapid, her lips are parted – he wants her terribly. When she presses in closer to him, he smiles. Yes, she will be his. She will hear him forever.


	17. XVII

I credit my recent fancy of italicizing and repeating phrases to reading too much Poe. ;)

* * *

XVII. _"if you read this line, remember not the hand that wrote it"_

The chandelier collapses in a magnificent display of destruction; the opera house burns as he drags her far downward. Again – _again_ she has betrayed him, but this time before all. Why would she do such a thing? What has he done to deserve this addition of insult to injury?

Dimly he realizes that his beautiful opera is burning along with the rest of the theatre; his creation is dying in the flaming glory of his hatred. In a wild streak of fancy, he thinks that perhaps the inferno will not reach the pit, and that somehow his opera will be salvaged and his story told long after he is dead. They will remember him only through his music, knowing him for a hungry, tormented, brilliant soul, and they will appreciate what he has written. He had been well aware of the audience's reception to his music, but they were ignorant; they knew nothing of what it all meant. It is therefore to him a great loss – it contains within it what might have been.


	18. XVIII

XVIII. _"remember only the verse, songmaker's cry, the one without tears"_

Reason has left him, and all that is left is man's basest nature. Like an animal, like a predator, he snarls at his defenseless prey. He does not want their pity; he is accustomed to living without it. He does not need it.

He spits out his terms, his eyes burning not with tears but with the passion of the moment. In fury he tugs on the rope, causing the boy to gasp for air.

_Yes, little fly,_ he thinks, _you are trapped in a web far too vast for you to imagine._

Their voices rise in a disjointed trio: Christine's soprano sweet and clear even in desperation; the Vicomte's tenor struggling to be heard but still surprisingly strong; and his own, powerful yet laced with sorrow. He does not need pity, which he lacks, or hatred, which he has in abundance. Only her, only her.

* * *

Review Responses

**Aliiak:** Thanks ever so much! I wouldn't really consider it a "story" either... captured moments are what this really contains.


	19. XIX

XIX. _"for I've given this its strength, and it has become my only strength"_

Her lips on his – what indescribable ecstasy! What wordless euphoria explainable through music alone!

During the most deep and silent nights he had prayed for this, and doubted whether the God in whom he scarce believes could even hear him at all in his makeshift Hell. And now as his wish manifests before him, as bittersweet tears spring at last to his eyes, he realizes that he does not know what to do.


	20. XX

I apologize for the recent lack of updates... but this is a big chunk of posting I'm doing now: 7 installments! Enjoy!

* * *

XX. _"comforting home, mother's lap, chance for immortality"_

She could have been the one to fill all these empty spaces in his life. All he needed was her by his side, and all would be bearable: his face, his sorrow, his hatred. Yet he has come to see that all is fleeting, and he will never have these precious desires.

And he would not condemn her to the same fate.

* * *

Review Responses:

**DreaminofLorien:** Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews! One thing, though... you said he doesn't want love. I must disagree with that; I think he wants Christine's love but _only_ hers. In his opinion, everyone else can just go die. Including Raoul. ;)


	21. XXI

XXI. _"where being wanted became a thrill I never knew"_

Everyone leaves him, he thinks ruefully. Even though he bid – no, _ordered_ her to leave, he still feels abandoned. Perhaps it is because of the way she and her lover departed in tender song, so soft and pure in the gloom of a place which knows neither quality. The ring in his hand is all that is keeping him from losing his mind completely.

He looks up at the mirrors hatefully, as if they are the source of all his woes. And as he moves to shatter them, he realizes that the only people who ever wanted to keep him around were those who hurt him the most.


	22. XXII

XXII. _"the sweet piano writing down my life"_

He conceals himself in one of the cavern's many secret alcoves while they search for him. He is not worried; he knows they will never find him, and will probably leave the ill-boding chamber soon. At least, he hopes they will leave quickly. Although he has called this place home since boyhood, he now wishes to leave it as soon as he may.

He will gather his manuscripts and his few cherished belongings, and _go_. It does not matter where; all that matters is that he can get out of this self-made Hell, where there is no beauty save that of darkness which he creates himself. There is nothing left for him here.

His one regret about leaving is that he will have to leave his organ behind. The old thing played like a dream – that is, a dream full of fantasies of eerie resplendence, he thinks. This was the way he liked it; it has been his companion, giving voice to his music even before she did. He wonders if perhaps he could pay a handsome sum of money to have it shipped to... _wherever_ it is that he is going. For it befits the nature of his music, in all its despondency and blind hope and fantastic madness.


	23. XXIII

XXIII. _"teach me passion, for I fear it's gone"_

He comes upon yet another revelation: for so long she has been the focus, the object, the inspiration of his work. For what now shall he compose? Could there ever be a sweeter muse?

And then he recalls how his earliest melodies grew like blackened flowers from a barren garden. These were raw and dark and stained with the blood of years, and their harmonies were like shadows under the moon, disturbingly black against their possibility of light.

He smiles grimly, in spite of himself. His early music was full of greys and blacks and wraiths of misery; that which he wrote for her was laced with a midnight loveliness. The two combined, this new pain entwined with the old, shall make the finest, the most beautiful, and the most terrible music he has ever created.


	24. XXIV

XXIV. _"show me love, hold the lorn"_

He will not love again; of this he is sure. He had reached out for a taste of forbidden fruit, and lost all. No, the feeling has lost its place in his heart; it has been and shall remain an emotion he reserves only for her – and she is gone. But he will honor her memory – after all, she felt something beautiful for him and let his mind soar unto new heights of creation.

He will be lonely; she has made it so, and since he cannot have her, this is what he wants.


	25. XXV

XXV. _"so much more I wanted to give to the ones who love me – I am sorry"_

He gathers his manuscripts and dusty stacks of sheet music, placing it in all in his trunk. His glance settles upon an unfinished piece, many pages long. Scribbled reminders, notes, and suggestions fill the margins around the staves; entire sections have been rewritten several times. Amid the disorder are tiny sketches of one woman's face. There is no written title, but in his mind he has always though of it as simply "Christine and Erik". The piece tells of their meeting, tutelage, and eventual love; it was to have been his great gift to her, his masterpiece and proof of truest love.

This will not now come to pass, he knows, but as he lays it reverently atop everything else and closes the trunk, he vows to complete it.


	26. XXVI

A/N: Three more to go after this!

* * *

XXVI. _"time will tell, this bitter farewell"_

His parting from her was no sweet sorrow; no, it was sorrow laid bare and screaming. But now the screams have fallen silent, and like a hushing wind he steps out onto the streets of Paris. Still he is unsure of where he will go. London, perhaps, or Vienna – any large city where he can lurk behind the curtain and remain a ghost forever. He thinks that he may like to have some of his work performed, simply send it to the opera houses never seen. People then will wonder who this mysterious, invisible composer is. He thinks he might publish it anonymously, although there would be no harm in using his real name. Or, he fancies, he would prove to all those of the ruined Opera Populaire that he is still alive, and use a pseudonym – with the simple initials _O.G._

He walks the dimly lamplit streets, going to purchase a carriage so he can go where he will, no longer bound by walls or desire. Where that place will be and what it will entail only time will tell. 


	27. XXVII

XXVII. _"I live no more to shame nor me nor you"_

He purchases a comfortable carriage and a pair of horses, his face obscured behind the shadow of his hooded cloak. Wryly he thinks that now he could be the one to order his fine horses. Ah, the irony.

He wonders what she is doing, neither for the first nor the last time. He shudders at the awful possibilities which enter his mind and hope she is thinking of him. This time he almost laughs aloud at the cruel irony of it all. _If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me._ Who would have thought that it would turn out this way? But he also wonders if she will be happy in her new life, a life without him. He knows that her proficiency as a singer will not grow as he could make it. He had not yet taught her all that there was for her to know. Yet he realizes sadly that perhaps to her, love is more desirable than music. This is a concept with which he finds it difficult to identify. But what is done is done, and if this makes her truly happy, then he must resign himself to suffer through it as he has suffered through all else.

* * *

Review Responses:

**DreaminofLorien** – Thanks! I agree, this song is really a perfect fit for the storyline. The band likes PotO – they did a really awesome cover of the title song.


	28. XXVIII

XXVIII. _"And you – I wish I didn't feel for you anymore."_

He sifts through the score of _Christine and Erik_, remembering well where he left off and already imagining how it will continue. But one unsolvable problem surfaces in his mind: the ending. How shall the piece close? With the truth, brash and angry and tragic? Or with the stuff of his own dreams, nocturnal and passionate?

Other questions begin to prey upon his brain. Why exactly does she love the boy so much? Whatis really so important to her that her Angel cannot understand? Would he be better off just forgetting her after all, lest he drive himself mad with second guessing? Would it have been better if they had never met; was the ephemeral happiness worth this torment?

No matter how hard he tries, he cannot arrive at any satisfactory answers.


	29. XXIX

A/N: This is the final installment! Thanks to everyone who read and/or reviewed, especially Em - your reviews really helped to keep me inspired to write this. :)

By the way... it's good to know we can now post fics in Esperanto, isn't it? P

* * *

XXIX._ a lonely soul, an ocean soul_

He comes to the shore out of the simple desire to lay eyes upon the sea. In his whole life he has seen it but once, and its image has remained engraved in his mind since his youth. He remembers mournful gulls, and powerful crests collapsing upon themselves, and the scent of many tears. And he finds it now just the same, a beautiful untamed cacophony. He watches the waves crashing down in ruinous splendor, irreverent of man's worries and marking the passing of time only bytheir own slow measures.

Yet he swears that he can hear music even amid the water's rage and the saline wind and the wailing gulls, and for a brief moment he forgets her. He muses that he could write a piece for the sea; it would begin soft and low, then grow to magnificent grandeur before receding like the tide – and then a gently quavering soprano aria –

And the remembering is the greatest pain.

_Fin._


End file.
